Friday, July 30, 2004
Medical Research 3
Well.
I showed up at the agreed upon location to meet Jenny for the interview/physical. She wasn't there. I waited for a few minutes. Misha showed up. She could have told me she was Jenny, I wouldn't have known any different.
We sat down and began to fill out the secondary questionnaire. More medical history questions, more alcohol and drug use questions, and a whole lot of questions about phobias. One more time for the record, I am not afraid of closed spaces, open spaces, high spaces, low spaces, people, public speaking, writing tests, spiders, the dark, water, peanut butter, the number 13, or other peoples' opinions. I do, however, avoid the entrance to Superstore whenever possible.
They want to measure the amount of gamma-amino butyric acid in my brain. Cool.
She assures me that I won't get hurt, that I can opt out at anytime and that if they find out anything really cool, wierd, or dangerous, they'll let me know.
I signed the consent form.
Misha takes me to meet Dr. Nick.
That's right, Dr. Nick.
This is the point where images of Matt Groening's Dr. Nick Riviera, internet diplomas and a rusty scapel flash through my mind. Luckily, this Dr. Nick has an English accent. The fear subsides. She didn't ask me about my animated-doctor-phobia.
Dr. Nick calls my glasses 'spectacles', and his shred box is labelled, 'confidential waste'. The English always make me smile.
He says he needs to check my blood pressure. I'm feeling comfortable now. I say, "...to see if I have some?" He says, "Well, you DID walk in here."
I decide to try not to be too funny anymore.
He continues to check my pulse, my heart, my lungs, my height, my weight, my eyes, my ears, my nose, and my throat. Everything checks out. Now I know a Psychiatrist that would attest to the fact that I appear normal...at least until he scans my brain.
But that's next week.
I showed up at the agreed upon location to meet Jenny for the interview/physical. She wasn't there. I waited for a few minutes. Misha showed up. She could have told me she was Jenny, I wouldn't have known any different.
We sat down and began to fill out the secondary questionnaire. More medical history questions, more alcohol and drug use questions, and a whole lot of questions about phobias. One more time for the record, I am not afraid of closed spaces, open spaces, high spaces, low spaces, people, public speaking, writing tests, spiders, the dark, water, peanut butter, the number 13, or other peoples' opinions. I do, however, avoid the entrance to Superstore whenever possible.
They want to measure the amount of gamma-amino butyric acid in my brain. Cool.
She assures me that I won't get hurt, that I can opt out at anytime and that if they find out anything really cool, wierd, or dangerous, they'll let me know.
I signed the consent form.
Misha takes me to meet Dr. Nick.
That's right, Dr. Nick.
This is the point where images of Matt Groening's Dr. Nick Riviera, internet diplomas and a rusty scapel flash through my mind. Luckily, this Dr. Nick has an English accent. The fear subsides. She didn't ask me about my animated-doctor-phobia.
Dr. Nick calls my glasses 'spectacles', and his shred box is labelled, 'confidential waste'. The English always make me smile.
He says he needs to check my blood pressure. I'm feeling comfortable now. I say, "...to see if I have some?" He says, "Well, you DID walk in here."
I decide to try not to be too funny anymore.
He continues to check my pulse, my heart, my lungs, my height, my weight, my eyes, my ears, my nose, and my throat. Everything checks out. Now I know a Psychiatrist that would attest to the fact that I appear normal...at least until he scans my brain.
But that's next week.
# posted by Anonymous : 10:25 PM
